


you know you at the top when only heaven's right above it

by higgsbosonblues



Category: Formula E RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Champagne, I'm just ignoring all the sad things okay, M/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Restraint, a little bit D/s, absolute filth, andré is filthy, but pre-disqualification, come-swapping, jev is a slut for it, post-Le Mans 2018, why does Jev get all the bad luck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 21:18:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15081929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/higgsbosonblues/pseuds/higgsbosonblues
Summary: André thinks Jean-Éric needs to celebrate after his win at Le Mans.





	you know you at the top when only heaven's right above it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ttired](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ttired/gifts).



> So! It was only a matter of time before I got obsessed with this pairing, given that they are basically the Max and Dan of Formula E, only with them it's less "let's stare into each others' eyes and flirt" and more "let's grope each other in public". 
> 
> This was written after Jev's Le Mans win but pre-disqualification woes, so I didn't really know whether to post it, but then anonissue posted her incredible smut written along the same lines so I'm sending this one out into the world. 
> 
> Just porn with no plot whatsoever.

Jean-Éric is fairly sure he’s never going to let the trophy out of his sight again. The team had sent him back to his hotel suite to get some sleep before the celebrations began in earnest that evening - mainly because he was so overwhelmed and sleep-deprived after the podium ceremony that he kept getting tearful - but he’s too fired up to sleep properly, adrenaline still fizzing in his veins.

He rolls on to his side, stretching despite his aching muscles, unable to stop the slightly hysterical grin spreading across his face at the sight of the trophy. He’s brought it into the bedroom and placed it on the dresser opposite the bed so he can see it easily, and refuses to feel embarrassed about it. If anything, he thinks he’s been pretty restrained by not actually bringing it into bed with him.

Gradually it filters through his haze that the reason why he’s woken up isn't actually because he just needs to look at the trophy again, but because his phone is vibrating on the pillow next to his head where he'd fallen asleep in the middle of replying to a text. He rubs his eyes with the heel of one hand and tilts his phone up to see who’s calling.

André. He smiles and hit the ‘answer’ button, thumbing the speakerphone on so he doesn’t have to sit up.

“Hey, champion,” André’s voice comes through, muffled through the speaker and with its usual teasing lilt. “How's it feel to be a winner?”

Jean-Éric laughs. “You should know,” he says. His voice is gravelly with sleep and he clears his throat before he speaks again. “It feels good. Really good.”

André hums in agreement. “You sound weird. What's up with your voice?”

“I'm in bed,” Jean-Éric says, stifling a yawn.

“With a beautiful lady?” André says hopefully.

“No.”

“Or a beautiful man?”

“No!” Jean-Éric says. “Do you answer your phone when you're in bed with someone? Very bad manners. I was trying to nap.”

André tuts, causing a burst of static down the phone that makes Jean-Éric flinch. “You're not celebrating properly.”

“Oh, so what would you do?” Jev says, sitting up so he can look at his trophy again. He catches sight of himself in the mirror opposite the bed and pulls a face; he'd fallen asleep with his hair damp from the shower and it's dried in strange patterns, sticking up at one side.“As you're the expert.”

“Oh, you know, the usual,” André says airily. “Drink a lot of champagne, trash a hotel room, try to get my dick sucked.”

Jean-Éric snorts. “You’re such a cliché.”

“Hey, it's a cliché for a reason,” André says solemnly, although Jev can hear the smile in his voice. “And that's because it's great.”

Jean-Éric rolls his eyes at the phone, forgetting André can't see. “There's a bottle of champagne here. The hotel had put it in here when I got back. You can come and help me drink it if you must.”

“That's more like it,” André says, pleased, and hangs up before he can reply.

 

Jev has just enough time to drag on a pair of jeans and brush the sour taste out of his mouth, running his fingers through his hair and then giving up on it, before there's a knock on the door. He's almost knocked off his feet by André sweeping him into a bear hug, and then he actually _is_ lifted off his feet, yelping with laughter as André spins him.

“Well done,” he says when he's put Jean-Éric down, patting his head and mussing his hair, smiling when Jev frowns and finger-combs it back into place. “Now you are truly a man. Let me see your trophy.”

Jean-Éric points into the bedroom, and André pokes his head round the doorway, laughing when he sees the little shrine Jev’s got set up in there. Jean-Éric shakes his head, resigned to the inevitable teasing, and busies himself with taking the foil off the top of the bottle of champagne from the mini-fridge.

“Aw, look, they even left me a glass,” André says, indicating the two champagne flutes waiting on a silver tray. There's a little dish of fancy chocolate truffles with the 24 Heures du Mans logo stamped on in gold, and André pops one in his mouth.

“I don't think it was for you specifically,” Jean-Éric says, pouring two glasses, enjoying the way the champagne foams on to the tray. “Probably they think I have some supermodel waiting for me.”

“Same thing,” André says through his mouthful of chocolate.

“Of course,” Jean-Éric says, packing as much disdain as he possibly can into two syllables. He bites his lip, hesitating. “I’m sorry your race got all fucked up. You recovered well.”

“It’s fine,” André says lightly. “Just wasn’t my year. These things happen at Le Mans, you know that.”

There’s a decisive tone to his voice that Jean-Éric knows means he doesn’t want to discuss it any further, and he nods in acquiescence, handing over a glass. André grins, the skin around his eyes crinkling in that way that always makes Jean-Éric smile back automatically, and raises his champagne flute in a toast. “To you,” he says. “To Jean-Éric Vergne, winner of LMP2 at Le Mans, and the possibility of him getting his dick sucked.”

“I'll drink to that,” Jean-Éric says, and drains the entire glass in one go, just because he can. The bubbles make him gasp for breath. Maybe it’s the sudden light-headedness, maybe he’s still a bit drunk or overtired or maybe it’s just sheer adrenaline, but before he can think better, he says, “You keep talking about this. Is this an offer?”

He's ready to write it off as a joke if André does, just the latest in their endless back-and-forth of innuendo and teasing, but at the same time he's not entirely surprised when André tips the contents of his own champagne flute down his throat, wipes his mouth with the back of one hand and says, “It can be, if you like.”

They stare at each other for a moment, gauging each other's reactions, before André shrugs and puts his champagne flute down, picking up the bottle instead and grabbing Jean-Éric round the wrist. “I'm really good at giving head,” he says over his shoulder as he leads Jean-Éric through to the bedroom.

“And so modest,” Jean-Éric mumbles. It’s not the best comeback but he's preoccupied with most of the blood in his body rushing from his brain to his cock. He should have known that André is never one to back down. The other driver is gripping his wrist tightly, and Jean-Éric feels dizzy, turned on, a little bit horrified at his own daring.

André places the champagne bottle down on the nightstand, pushing Jean-Éric down on to the bed with his other hand. He waits until Jean-Éric is settled on his back, propped against the pillows, before crawling on to the bed, straddling the younger man’s knees and gazing down at him. “Modesty is for people who aren't champions,” he tells Jean-Éric, smirking, hands rubbing Jev’s jeans-clad thighs maddeningly slowly. Jean-Éric is pinned beneath him, thighs tensing under André’s ministrations. With a small jolt he realises that it doesn’t even feel _weird_ to have his teammate on top of him like this, hands grazing over the crease of his thighs, inches from his half-hard cock.

“You do know I'm not _technically_ a champion,” Jev says, and André rolls his eyes, slaps his flank lightly.

“You have a trophy, don’t you? Do you want your dick sucked or not?” he says, and Jean-Éric laughs, tilts his head up to meet André halfway when he leans down to kiss him.

Like everything else he does, André kisses with a certain amount of dominance, tongue pushing between Jean-Éric’s parted lips almost immediately, hands cupping his face to hold him still. He tastes like champagne and dark chocolate. Jean-Éric makes a soft breathy sound into the kiss and feels André smile against him, tilting his body forward so he can rock his hips down against Jev’s.

Jean-Éric whines softly when André pulls back, and André snickers as he leans over to grab the bottle of champagne. “You’re so needy,” he says, but there's no mockery in his tone. The opposite, in fact: André looks down at him with an expression that makes Jev squirm, the blue of his eyes darker now. “Man,” André says contemplatively. “I can’t wait to hear what kind of noises you make when you’re coming into my mouth.”

“Jesus,” Jean-Éric says, has to close his eyes for a second at the spike of arousal. When he opens them again, André is still watching him, smirking. There’s a strip of skin showing between the hem of his t-shirt and his jeans, just teasing at the muscles beneath, and Jean-Éric reaches up, runs his fingers over the skin. André hisses out a breath but doesn’t react otherwise, eyes still on Jean-Éric’s face.

After a moment, André knocks his hand gently out of the way and tips the champagne bottle to Jean-Éric’s mouth, careful not to let the heavy glass rim of the bottle bash him in the teeth. Jean-Éric gulps at the cold liquid, half-laughing as the bubbles make him cough, ignoring the droplets that spill from his mouth and down his cheeks. André grins down at him, his eyes dark and pleased, and lifts the bottle to his own lips, taking a mouthful before he ducks his head again to kiss Jean-Éric, the liquid spilling between their mouths. It feels filthy, makes Jean-Éric feel debauched. He opens his mouth wide, tongue sliding against André’s, sucking the taste of the alcohol from his mouth.

André pulls back, breathing hard, setting the bottle back down so he can pull his own shirt over his head, urging Jean-Éric to follow suit. He clambers off Jean-Éric’s lap, pushing his legs apart so he can kneel between them. “This is fun,” he says, and leans over to grab the champagne bottle again. He tips it, pouring a foaming pool into the dip of Jean-Éric’s collarbone and leaning down to lick it up. The cold of the champagne contrasted with the heat of André’s mouth makes Jev groan, and he reaches up to cup the back of André’s neck, holding him in place. He can feel the champagne running down his neck, into his hair. André rakes his teeth over Jean-Éric’s collarbone, kissing open-mouthed down his sternum, pausing to lick and bite at each nipple until Jean-Éric whines, hips flexing unconsciously. André lifts his head slightly, runs his fingertips down the ticklish skin of Jean-Éric’s belly to make him suck it in, and pours more champagne into the resulting hollow between his hipbones.

Jean-Éric gasps, fighting to stay still, watching as André dips his head and laps at the puddle of liquid, lifting his gaze to make eye contact as he sucks a light bruise into the skin below Jev’s navel. Once he’s finished, André licks a broad flat stripe across the flat of his stomach, chin catching on his belt buckle. Jean-Éric lifts his hips, fighting to keep his eyes open when all he wants to do is sink back into the pillows and let André’s mouth take him apart. His whole body feels sticky, shining with André’s spit.

“Don't you dare,” Jean-Éric says when André tips the bottle teasingly over his still-clothed crotch, reaching down to tug it out of his hand and set it down on the floor next to the bed. André laughs, dirty and full of promise, hands at Jean-Éric’s waistband.

“Up,” he says as he undoes the button fly of his jeans, and Jean-Éric lifts his hips obligingly. André tugs his jeans down in one sharp movement, helping to pull them down over his knees and tossing them to the floor next to the champagne bottle.

He bites his way down the inside of Jean-Éric’s thigh, hard enough to make him gasp, then mouths over his erection through the thin fabric of his underwear, sucking at the tip through the soft cotton and then grazing his teeth lightly over it, making him jump, dipping his head to mouth at where his balls are already drawn up tight and aching.

“Oh, fuck,” Jean-Éric says, flexing his hips and grasping handfuls of the bedding to anchor himself. His cock is already throbbing, precum soaking the damp fabric as André mouths at it.

André rests his cheek briefly against Jean-Éric’s hip, smiling up at him with a disarmingly sweet expression before he says “I want you to fuck my mouth, okay?” and pulls Jean-Éric’s boxers down in one quick motion.

Jean-Éric curses again, in French this time because he can get more feeling into it, and André laughs and licks a broad stripe up the shaft of Jean-Éric’s cock. He gets his finger and thumb around him, holding it in place, parts his lips and takes Jean-Éric in completely and without warning, letting his hips roll up into the wet heat.

André wasn't lying when he said he was good at this, Jean-Éric realises, having to breathe deeply to settle himself and make sure he doesn’t come immediately. He takes Jean-Éric deep, nose brushing the curls of his pubic hair, tongue curled around the shaft. Jean-Éric moans his name like a litany, bracing his feet against the mattress so he can flex his hips into André’s willing mouth, fucking into the wet heat.

“Goddamn,” Jean-Éric grits out when André lifts his head to take a breath. His chest is heaving. “Where did you learn to deep-throat so good?”

André just smirks and dips his head again to suck at the tip of Jean-Éric’s cock, lapping at the saltiness leaking from it. He lifts his eyes again, holding Jean-Éric’s gaze, and Jean-Éric moans, can't take his eyes off the way André’s full lips look stretched around his cock. He lifts one hand to touch André’s cheek, feeling the way they're hollowed, and André sucks harder, leaning into the touch.

He reaches up and laces his fingers through Jev’s, squeezing his hand in a brief fond gesture before he changes his grip, pushing Jean-Éric’s hand to the bed at the same time as he grabs the other. He pins both of Jev’s hands to the mattress, arms spread wide, drawing a broken groan from deep in Jean-Éric’s throat as he struggles in André’s grip, his hips stuttering.

André lifts his head, smirking, eyes slumberous, taking in the sight of Jean-Éric held down appreciately. “You French guys,” he says. “I knew you'd like the kinky stuff.”

Jean-Éric makes a noise, half a laugh, half a moan, flexing his hands to make André tighten his grip around his wrists. He’s truly pinned, André keeping a tight enough hold and with his arms spread out wide enough not to be able to move his upper body at all. André dips his head again, tonguing the vein on the underside of Jean-Éric’s cock, a maddening tease. Jean-Éric arches off the bed, pushing his head back into the pillows, hands scrabbling at the ruined bedsheets where André keeps them restrained.

“God, you look good like this,” André says contemplatively, breathing a soft stream of cool air over the tip of Jean-Éric’s cock, making him shudder. He's so composed, despite his swollen lips, and Jean-Éric feels a mess in comparison, hair soaked in sweat, struggling to catch his breath, sticky trails of champagne and André’s saliva drying on his skin.

“Please, André,” he moans, flexing his hips. “Please suck me.” The tip of his cock nudges against Andre’s cheek, leaving a shining trail, and André grins, turns his head to lick at him wetly. He points his tongue, licks at the precum welling at the tip of Jean-Éric’s erection so it hangs in a thread that connects André’s mouth with his cock. Jean-Éric whines at the sight, high-pitched and wrecked, and André smirks again, licking his lips with relish.

“I could keep you like this all day,” André murmurs, glancing up at him, his blue-grey eyes almost black. Suddenly he breaks into a wicked grin. “If you win the Formula E championship I'm gonna tie you to the bed and fuck you so hard you can't walk straight for a week.”

“Fuck,” Jean-Éric gasps, screwing his eyes shut as the mental images overwhelm him, the thought of being held completely at André’s mercy. He has no doubt that André would take great relish in taking him apart utterly. He's so close that André has only taken him back into his mouth for a couple of seconds before he's gasping out a warning. André just sucks him through it, swallowing around him, and Jean-Éric cries out sharply, body arching against the bind of André’s hands still holding him in place. Jean-Éric’s toes curl into the mattress, his hips moving of their own accord, shaking all over. He knows he’s making ridiculously pornographic noises but can’t seem to stop. André mouths at him, wet and soft, dragging out aftershocks that shudder down his spine.

André crawls up the bed before Jean-Éric has caught his breath, capturing Jean-Éric’s mouth in a fierce kiss. He tastes salty and bitter, an undertone of champagne, and Jean-Éric licks into his mouth, chasing the taste of himself there, his hands already at André’s belt buckle. Slickness coats their lips, makes their mouths slide against each other, smearing wetness across their chins.

“See? Kinky,” André says against his mouth, laughing, but Jean-Éric doesn't care at all, sucking at his tongue as he shoves one hand inside André’s jeans, giving up on his belt.

André laughs, breathless, knocking Jev’s fumbling hands out of the way to finish unbuckling his belt. He shoves his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh with one hand, the other bracing himself over Jean-Éric’s body. Jev palms his cock gracelessly, smearing wetness over the palm of his hand, and André groans into the kiss, fucking into Jev’s tight fist. Clearly he had enjoyed sucking Jean-Éric’s cock, because it takes barely any time at all before he's coming across Jean-Éric’s hand and stomach despite Jev’s uncoordinated movements. He buries his head in the crook of Jean-Éric’s neck as he comes, hips still moving, riding out the sensation, and Jean-Éric strokes him through it, loving the bitten-off noises he makes.

André is still against him for a long moment, then exhales slowly and rolls off Jean-Éric to lie on his back next to him, arms sprawled across the bed, one hand resting on Jean-Éric’s lower stomach. Jean-Éric lifts his hand that's coated with André’s cum to his mouth and licks it clean, just to fuck with him.

“Oh my god,” André murmurs, shocked, watching him with a heated expression. “You're such a slut for it. Jesus.”

Amidst the post-orgasmic haze, Jean-Éric feels a little proud that he can match André for filth, can still surprise him. He smirks and sucks his fingers clean, making a show, until André growls and knocks his hand out of the way so he can press his mouth to Jean-Éric’s, kissing him hard. He runs his hands over Jean-Éric’s body possessively, drawing him close, ignoring the way their skin sticks together with the vestiges of champagne. They lie like that for a while, making out, hands mapping each other's bodies, until Jean-Éric becomes uncomfortably aware of how sticky he is.

“I need to shower again,” he grumbles, pulling at the longer strands of his hair, drying into clumps where the champagne had run into his hairline.

André clicks his tongue, reaching to brush the hair from Jean-Éric’s face. “That's the thanks I get?” he says, but his eyes are twinkling.

Jean-Éric grins, sitting up amongst the ruined bedsheets and stretching luxuriously, aware of André’s appreciative gaze on his body. “Okay, fine, thank you very much for the wonderful blowjob, you are very good at it.”

“That's better,” André says, leaning in to press a kiss to Jean-Éric’s damp shoulder. “Now, go shower and we can carry on celebrating.”

 

 


End file.
